


His Choice

by Alice_in_Black



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Betrayal, Drama, Family Drama, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-24
Updated: 2014-05-24
Packaged: 2018-01-26 09:20:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1683197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alice_in_Black/pseuds/Alice_in_Black
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for <a href="http://the-bards-college.deviantart.com/">The Bard's College</a> collaboration contest, this is Loghain's story as he resolves to betray King Cailan at the Battle of Ostagar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Choice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gaspode5](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gaspode5/gifts).



Despite faint lines drawn from the corners of his eyes, Loghain knew that any signs of age on King Cailan were creases left from smiles and laughter, but certainly not maturity. How the product of the union between two people he loved so dearly could be so utterly detestable was made all the more despicable by the fact that this man—no, this _child_ , was a king with the lives of every man and woman of Ferelden in his hands. Oh, fate could have a sense of humor indeed, but Loghain had lost his mirth long, long ago, and did not much appreciate the joke.

“To mistake the horrors and atrocities of war for glory is as childish as it is irresponsible,” Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir growled. At his sides, his balled fists trembled in rage, yet no matter how he tried to ease his grip, the old man knew he was just one more foolish argument away from cutting himself on his gauntlets. “Your continued success is not indicative of destiny unfolding, but a lucky series of skirmishes that do not even amount to a true Blight.”

“Lucky?! For skirmishes?” the king blurted out, flinging his arms out wide to exaggerate how preposterous Loghain’s words rang to him. “We have Grey Wardens standing beside us on the battlefield! We have mages at our backs, we have war heroes and young talent alike! All the makings of victory and legend to be told through the ages, and you sit here with smoke pouring out your ears because you think we need to be playing it safe over _skirmishes_! There is a very real Blight brewing, and that is why the Wardens are with us, and more are on the way from Orlais!”

Outside the sovereign’s lavishly furnished tent, the sounds of chatter faded until even distant vespertine insects could be heard chirping with worrying clarity. How many attentive soldiers now stood, silent as the grave, trying to overhear their argument? Of course, they must have been well aware by now that the king and teyrn did not see eye-to-eye, but it would not do to have the men knowing the details of their disagreements.

Loghain wanted desperately to shout back, to throw the table from between them and rap the young fool on the head. Instead, he hissed, “Quiet yourself, before the morale of the whole company goes sour. You’re their leader, and you would be wise not to let your tantrums be heard as far as Denerim.”

“Says the man who makes the ground shake when he has something to add!” Cailan shot back. Nonetheless, his volume dropped considerably, but not without a fair amount of acidity to take its place. “What would you have me do? Withdraw our forces? Forget about the Darkspawn crawling up from the south?”

“I would have you temper your enthusiasm, to start,” Loghain said for what felt like the hundredth time. “Even if this was indeed a true Blight, you forget the dangers that would await all of Ferelden. Is a good story to be told really worth the blood and death that would come with it?” As always, his grim words of warning were met with nothing more than a scoff and a wave from the younger man, so the teyrn continued, “You do not need every sword arm in the country here! Scores and scores of warriors and archers, mages even! You’ve left almost the entire land unprotected.”

“I beg to differ. If this is a real Blight, we must be ready to meet it in force.”

“And what? Leave ourselves entirely open to attack from Orlais? The threat is not coming from underground, but just beyond the horizon!” The dismissive roll of Cailan’s eyes had Loghain’s blood boiling in his veins, just like it always did. “Just because you didn’t live to see what they did does not make their threat any less real, and if you think the world has changed so much in the short amount of time you’ve been alive, you are woefully mistaken.”

But the monarch was already shaking his head, pacing cross the lush carpet hiding hard earth to the other side of the tent. Any closer, they both knew, and someone might just get punched. “I’ve been in correspondence with Orlais, including Celene herself. Matters are perfectly amiable.”

In Cailan’s armor, gilt and meticulously polished to a perfectly ostentatious glow, Loghain was afforded a glimpse at his own reflection. A web of wrinkles ran over his skin, which fit just a little looser than it had yesterday. Much of that age had begun to show years ago; it was far more than time alone that had worn him down. The Orlesian Occupation had torn him apart time and time again, and he had only been held together by his own rage, living on just to see them wiped from his homeland. That Cailan could not fathom seeing his mother raped and murdered in front of him was a testament not to the trustworthiness of Olesians, but to the war that Maric and Loghain had fought together to eradicate them. Loghain had watched his mother die in such a way. He held Adalla as she died because of them, and witnessed too much pain and death at their hands.

Never, so long as Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir had breath to fight it, would Orlesians be welcome in Ferelden.

And over his cold dead body would one of those painted monsters dare take his daughter’s place as queen. The rumors were, as of yet, just rumors. But suspicions were rising, and Loghain would not rest until he knew exactly what the imprudent king was planning. He understood the implications of his daughter being childless after five years or more of sharing Cailan’s bed, but hints and suggestions that Empress Celene might have a place in Ferelden was enough to make Loghain’s hand twitch toward his sword.

“If you allow the Orlesians into Ferelden again, or show them any amount of friendliness, you will be making a grave mistake,” Loghain promised. “They come, all too willing to help, no doubt elated at your blind trust. If I didn’t think you were so ignorant to their treachery, I’d think you were in league with them.”

“You’re just too lost in problems of the past,” Cailan groaned. “The Orlesian Occupation is long over, and we have a Blight on our hands. It’s high time you realized that your old grudges will only serve to hold us back in the end.”

*~*~*

A title alone could never change Loghain’s past. Nothing would erase his common blood, or any of his painful experiences. Nothing would wash the blood from Loghain’s conscience, even if he wanted to try. Even so, it was more than just his own life that would be defined by those things. He was the living expression of a ripple of fate, the result of countless circumstances, and now the chance had made its way to him once again and it was his turn to be the catalyst.

Battle was imminent. Even now, across the camp, the Grey Wardens were making the last of their preparations before their two newest members started for the tower. Mabari hounds were outfitted in enchanted harnesses and war paint, and the hymns of clerics and terrified soldiers alike filled the night air with the haunting hum of those made suddenly aware of their frail mortality. Too many times Loghain had felt this discontent in his soul, this quiet before the storm.

For once, though, he would not focus on tactics, review orders, or inspect the preparing company. Rather than maps or strategies, plain white vellum sat in front of Loghain. The flickering light seemed to make the sheet shudder, as though waiting with that same anxious anticipation of a warrior waiting for the command to charge into the fray.

_My precious Anora,_

She deserved to know what stone Loghain planned to throw into the water, since the ripples would change her life as much as anyone’s. She deserved to know, and damn it, he knew she was smart and strong enough to handle whatever would happen. The Chant of Light turned to the laughter and chatter of a little girl as she dragged the young prince through the garden, ordering him around as if he were a servant, and the poor, stupid boy didn’t think twice but to answer her every demand. Could he write this letter to her? Could he tell that sweet child that he was going to kill that treacherous, shortsighted, glory-obsessed little boy beside her? He punished himself with the image of Anora, still half his height, with big blue eyes filled with tears when she read the contents of this letter. Could he do that to her? Could he place this guilt, shame, or whatever else she might feel from knowing the truth on her shoulders with this confession?

It did not matter that Anora was clever enough to figure it out on her own and make the most of the shattered pieces of her life. Always, she would be that little thing running through the garden, reading books between rosebushes while her prince crawled through thorns without a care. She would never grow up in his eyes. And, as it suddenly occurred to Loghain, neither would Cailan.

The image of his daughter’s face flashed away in a flicker of light as the letter he’d only just begun was thrust into the flame of the lamp. Any regret or guilt would rest solely on his shoulders.

“Ser Loghain, Ser Cauthrien is here to—“

Not even needing to look up to the guard peeking his head into the tent, the teyrn waved his guest in. “Yes, she may enter.”

Strong and smart as his own daughter, Cauthrien’s determined set of her jaw and her rigid posture commanded respect, and had been learned not through noble upbringing but through years of hard work. Armor fit her like a second skin, and in places blood from countless battles caught within the chain mesh could never be scrubbed off.

“Ser, regarding the tactics for the coming battle,” Cauthrien said with a bow, “I come bearing the request of my subordinate members of Maric’s Shield. They all wish to be beside King Cailan himself during the battle, rather than with the flanking force.”

Standing from his narrow desk, Loghain regarded Cauthrien curiously.

“We are Maric’s Shield. To let the king himself fight in the thick of it while we wait in the wilds feels cowardly. Our place should be defending our liege.”

“This was King Cailan’s decision,” Loghain said somberly. “But for us to succeed, the ambush must be strong. I need my strongest with me if these tactics are to work.”

“I know, ser. The hammer-and-anvil strategy. It’s very effective against Darkspawn. Still, the number of Darkspawn rises with every battle. And the king’s faith in the Grey Wardens alone seems wildly optimistic. I know we would all be more comfortable if he had chosen not to be in such a dangerous part of the battle, but if we can at least send more of our elite force to protect him…”

Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Loghain was already shaking his head. “He chose this, Ser Cauthrien. This is precisely what King Cailan chose.”

He would remind himself of that as the final preparations were made and the armies moved out into their positions, as the last commands were made, and as the whole army watched a thousand Darkspawn crawl over the horizon.

And he reminded himself of that, over and over, with every breath as he waited in the cover of the trees with his army for the signal. Every time his eyes closed, he found himself confronted by images, of Maric and Rowan, faces of comrades and enemies, Orlesians and Grey Wardens, a lifetime of decisions and sacrifices that had led him here. But the most moving of all were the memories of his daughter, beautiful from the day she was born.

The horns sounding across the battlefield carried none of the meaning they had a lifetime ago. They were not heroes, these men and women stretched out behind him, awaiting orders, nor were the others already engaged in battle beyond. Heroism, glory, honor, these words rang empty in this era, just echoes of past wars that had transformed into bedtime stories not at all doing justice to the sacrifice and valiance that took place. The people who would die in that valley were not heroes, but toy soldiers playing out a child’s game, a game that Loghain had finally had enough of.

Far above them, at the height of the ruins of Ostagar, a beacon burned through the night, hitting the whole flanking army with a bone-chilling moment of anticipation. Loghain felt their eyes on him, their anxious ears counting on him giving the order any second to launch the attack. But when he looked at that beacon, he saw not a fire, nor any phantoms of those he loved. He saw Cailan for what he was, a child. Just as his own Anora would forever be a little girl in his eyes, so too would Cailan always be a foolish little boy, sitting in the throne of his father who he would never compare to, playing with the lives of the people of Ferelden like toys sprawled across his bedroom floor.

For Ferelden, Loghain would do what was best. For Anora, Loghain would do anything at all.

“Sound the retreat.”

Cauthrien at his side turned on him, her expression equal parts horrified and confused. “But… what about the king? Should we not—“

Every distant cry that echoed in Loghain’s ears asked the very same question. If he listened to them any longer, he might give in to them, he might break down to the memory of Maric or be overwhelmed by the sense of ill-placed loyalty he once had to Cailan. He could not allow the suffocating guilt to show on his face, nor could he let it sway him in this vital moment. This would seal the fate of his homeland, this moment. It would put to rest a damned worthless king and conspirator.

Without realizing, Loghain had grabbed Cauthrien’s wrist, yanking her fiercely with the only emotion that would not crumble the resolve Loghain had worked so hard for: anger. “Do as I command,” he growled.

Cauthrien, a proper soldier, a loyal subject of the king, and a woman of Ferelden, regarded Loghain with more ire than he’d seen in a pair of eyes in a long, long time. Half expecting her to defy him or attack him outright, Loghain’s hand barely itched toward his sword as she tore her arm away from him. But instead of cry out in protest or turn on him, Loghain watched in silent gratitude as she turned right on her heel, head held high, and carried the order on in a firm voice. Soon, hundreds of feet stomped out across the wilds, away from the battle, away from the screams and shouts and clashes of metal-on-metal.

Loghain afforded the beacon one last look, a final farewell to the legacy of his dearest friend.

“He chose this,” Loghain reminded himself once more under his breath. “And I chose what is right.”

**Author's Note:**

> As I mentioned, this was for a collaboration contest. While I wrote the piece, dA user [Gaspode5](http://gaspode5.deviantart.com/) created an incredible emotive piece of art to accompany it. It can be viewed [here](http://gaspode5.deviantart.com/art/His-Choice-428776810).


End file.
